


I go around thinking I'm a genius

by Emmalyn



Series: Never knew love [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Kaiju, Christmas Fluff, Grad Student AU, M/M, Meet-Cute, kind of a department store AU too, minor internalized ableism, non-explicit description of a panic attack, terrible abuse of Christmas cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2848064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmalyn/pseuds/Emmalyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newt sells holiday decorations.  Hermann has to plan his first ever Christmas party.  Though they both have degrees, neither has a clue.</p><p>What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Newt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [djrlol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/djrlol/gifts).



> Title from TMBG's "Never Knew Love." (The line is "I go around thinking I'm a genius...but I never knew love could be like this.")
> 
> For calvindientesblancos on Tumblr! Hope you like it. :)
> 
> (Some ideas taken from this post on Tumblr as well: http://emmalyn.tumblr.com/post/104390435574/captainasexual-fun-holiday-aus-for-you-to)

1.

It starts in mid-November.

"Why," Tendo asks, "is that guy here again?"

Newt jumps, yanked out of a daydream.  Well, sort of a dream.  More like a thought process.  Thoughts about processes.  Scientific processes.

Tendo doesn't seem to care that Newt is staring off into space.  Tendo's cool like that.  He just keeps talking.  "Seriously, man, he's been in three times this week."

"Who, that guy?"  Newt squints over at a scrawny college-age kid who's hitting on Sasha over at the jewelry counter.  Snickering, Newt thinks that the kid has guts--but he might not have them for very long.  Aleksis is not the scary one in their relationship, despite the fact that he's about twelve feet tall and probably weighs around 400 pounds.  Newt was pretty damn respectful of Sasha.  

"Not the kid, Newt, come on!  That guy."  Tendo jerks his head at an old dude standing by the Christmas display.  Wait, no, he's not an old dude, he's a young dude wearing old guy clothes.  Like, "cardigan over a sweater-vest" old.  And he's using a cane, but whatever, Newt's not a jerk, he just thought the guy was old because of the way he's got his sweater tucked into his –

Tendo smacks him lightly in the back of the head.  "You are so, so lucky you know the boss here, man. You zonk out more than anyone I've ever known."

"Do not!" Newt says, sticking his tongue out because he is a mature adult.  "And what are you, like, checking out all our customers as they come in?  Is that part of _your_ job description?"

Tendo rolls his eyes.  "I'm not checking him out, I just thought it was a bit odd that he's been in so often to get Christmas stuff."

"What, you don’t think he looks the type?"  Newt says, feeling a strange urge to defend Sweater Guy.  "Are you calling people Scrooges now?"

"No, doofus," Tendo says, "because he's probably bought half a dozen sets of lights and three wreaths in the past five days, and it's not even Thanksgiving yet. Doesn't that seem a bit...I dunno, _odd_ to you?"

Newt frowns.  "Maybe the guy's just really into Christmas."  He looks a little closer and sees that Sweater Guy is glaring at the tiniest, cutest Christmas tree in the store like he wants to burn it to the ground.  "Or...maybe not."

"Yeah, man," says Tendo.  "Like I said.  Weird.  Maybe he just has a black thumb with wreaths or something."

Newt nods, because that sounds logical, despite the fact that they don't actually stock live plants.

 

2.

It's nearly time for Thanksgiving break, and Newt's been counting.  Sweater Guy's bought three Christmas trees (the little ones that you can set on a table for your cat to knock over), six wreaths, and about five bajillion LED lights (shut up, he's a scientist, he can estimate things).

He and Tendo watch the guy when he comes in every couple of days – which, kinda creepy, but hey, formulating a hypothesis here – and he never buys anything _other_ than Christmas stuff.  No, wait, one time he bought milk, and like two frozen dinners, but that hardly counts.  Even Newt buys milk, and Newt practically lives off of Top Ramen and crippling student debt.

Anyway, Sweater Guy never makes eye contact, doesn't stay for long, and usually comes in right as Newt's about to doze off from boredom.  The afternoons are pretty slow during the school year, which is probably why Newt got hired in the first place.  Lucky Newt has all his classes in the evenings, leaving morning for sleeping in and playing video games, and the afternoons for work.  Newt doesn't mind working retail, really.  It's just that the slow times are pretty mind-numbing.  

Sweater Guy is taking longer than usual to pick out his random Christmas item of the day.  Tendo's over working customer service, so Newt's stuck at the one open register, being a creepy stalker because there is literally _no one else_ in the store that he can talk to.  Well, okay, he talks to his ichthyology textbook sometimes, but Tendo says that it weirds the customers out so Newt tries not to do it.  

Much.  

Pushing aside the textbook for now, Newt pretends to organize the area around the cash register.  The pens get pushed to one side, paper clips mixed in with the staples...yeah, that one'll drive Tendo up the wall.  Cackling to himself, Newt doesn't notice Sweater Guy hooking his cane in a string of lights until he hears the distinctive _crash-crunch-tinkle_ of ornaments shattering, and a shout of surprised pain.

Newt scrambles over the counter, knocking over the bowl of mixed-paperclips-and-staples in his haste to make sure Sweater Guy is okay and the tree hasn't, like, knocked him in the head or something.  

Luckily, Sweater Guy seems to be conscious, at least.  He's pulled himself to his knees by the time Newt gets over to him.  The guy's muttering something that sounds like "goddammit" and "bloody _spruces_ " and brushing glass shards off his pants.  

Skidding to a stop, Newt pauses.  He means to say something like " _hey dude, are you okay?_ " or maybe " _wow those bulbs really explode, huh?_ " but instead what comes out of his mouth is, "They're firs, dude."  

"What?" says Sweater Guy.  He's glaring at Newt.  Oh dear.  This is what Pentecost meant when he said, " _Newt, you need to work on your customer service side.  And by that I mean you need to_ find _one._ "  

Newt swallows.  "Uh, I mean, they're supposed to look like Douglas firs, which I only know because I just finished an ecology seminar, right?"  He laughs awkwardly.  "But they do look similar, I mean they're both evergreens, they just have different needles—"

Sweater Guy is on his feet now, leaning on his cane.  "I do not _care_ about the needles, Mr..."—here he peers over Newt's gesturing arms to read his nametag—"Guy Fieri?"  He pronounces it like true Italian, with three syllables.  Fee-yeh-ree.  

"Oh, goddammit, Tendo," Newt says, flipping his nametag to the right side.  This was obviously revenge for last week's register reorganization. "Yeah no, uh, my name's Newt.  Newt Geiszler."  He sticks out a hand in greeting.  

The other man just snorts, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like " _that's not much better_." Newt graciously decides to ignore this.  

The guy glares at Newt for another second, through his little round glasses with their glasses chain (does anyone under 80 still wear those?). "Well, Mr. Geiszler, or Fieri, or whatever your name is, I apologize for ruining your display," he says.  

Newt gives what he hopes is a pleasant, customer-service-type smile.  "Nah, no problem.  They fall over a lot, especially when the little kids come in after school.  I re-make this thing about ten times a week.  No big."  

This is obviously the wrong thing to say.  Sweater Guy goes all stiff.  "Pardon me for being so _clumsy_ , then," he says, and stalks away, cane clacking against the tile.  He walks straight out the front door without stopping to buy anything.  

As he's sweeping up the remnants of half a dozen blown-glass ornaments, Newt takes back his earlier comment to Tendo.  This dude is definitely a Scrooge.  

 

3.

"He shoots, he scores!" Tendo laughs as the ball of tape hits Newt squarely in the forehead.  

"Aw, come on, what's that for?" Newt says.

"For fun.  And by the way, your fake pout is not as cute as you think it is," Tendo snorts.

"Is too!  And besides, I was dancing to Christmas music. And it's nearly December.  If I can't get into the holiday spirit now, when can I?"

"Never, preferably," says Tendo, balling up some more tape. "Or you could at least wait until after hours, when you're less likely to scar the customers with your strange wiggling."  

"Dude, people would pay to see this!" Newt says.  His shoes squeak with every step on the linoleum tile.  

Tendo grins.  "I'd pay to see you _stop._ " He chucks the new ball of tape in Newt's general direction.  It bounces off a rack of nail polish. "Hey, the store's really slow right now, so I'm gonna head back to do inventory for a bit.  Mind watching the front?"

"Eh, sure, why not." Newt shrugs.  

"Good enough," Tendo says.  "Aleksis is around somewhere, feel free to yell if you get arrested for public indecency."  

"Very funny."  

"Back in ten!"

Sighing, Newt turns back toward the cashier's stand.  That's when he spots him.  Sweater Guy is back!  And it's been, like, three days, which has to be a record for "time spent before Scrooge breaks down and buys more random Christmas junk at the only department store in town decked out before Turkey Day."  The question remains, though:  Why's this guy buying all this stuff?  At this point, Newt's convinced that he's either a really tall, sweater-wearing elf, or one of those collectors of weirdness that he sees on old episodes of "Hoarders."

Newt is snapped out of his weird daydream about elves hoarding wreaths when he hears a loud _thunk_ from the kids' toys section of the store.  He turns to yell for Tendo, then realizes he's alone up front, and can't really leave the register unattended.  (Hey, Newt may not be Employee of the Month or anything, but he _does_ listen to people when they say things.  Usually.  If they're interesting.)

"Hey, Aleksis?" Newt says into his walkie-talkie.  "You busy?"

The tiny speaker crackles.  "Am rearranging sense display," says a gravelly Russian voice, and wait, no, Aleksis said _scents_ , not _sense_.  Damn walkie-talkies.  

"Come on, man, can't the perfumes wait for like two minutes?  I think someone just knocked something off a rack in toys."  

"Are kids hurt?" comes a smoother, more feminine tone.  Sasha is helping Aleksis, then.  Or they're making out in some random corner of the store again.  Whichever.  Either way, Newt might get his ass handed to him if he protests.  

Newt sighs.  "No, probably not.  I would've heard 'em before now."

"Then I'm sure you can handle it," Sasha says, in that dangerous voice of hers.  Oh, who is he kidding, her voice always sounds dangerous.

A muffled giggle comes over the walkie-talkie's speaker, and Newt abruptly turns it off.  He doesn't need to hear that.  Hopefully no one's over there bleeding out in the toys section, that would probably be bad for business, Newt might actually get fired, and then how would he pay for his kaiju comics and--

"Excuse me," says a British voice from nearby, and oh, it's Sweater Guy.  How had Newt not realized that he was British?  Did all British people sound this stuffy, or was Newt just _super_ culturally insensitive?  

Sweater Guy clears his throat, bringing Newt's attention to the huge dump truck toy on the floor by the register.  "Oh, sorry, my bad,"  Newt says. He scans the thing, and tries to find a bag that might fit over it, but nope, no dice.  Unless the guy wants a trash bag to put over it—and that's probably not a good idea to suggest to Stuffy McBritish Dude over here.

Instead, Newt tapes a gift receipt to the huge box as usual, and automatically asks, "So, do you need any help out with this today?"

An intake of breath makes Newt glance up, right into another piercing glare.  "I assure you that I am quite able of walking out of here on my own."  

 _Aw, shit_ , Newt thinks, _I went and stepped in it again._  "Uh, no, I just say things," he starts, then regroups, "I mean, I say that to everyone.  It's just a thing.  Like, customer service, you know?"

Sweater Guy is obviously not convinced.  His lip curls as he says, "If this is what you call ‘service,’ you may wish to pursue another career path."  And then he just scoops up the huge toy and leaves.

Newt really, really wants to yell _have a nice day, asshole!_ or something equally as witty, but he bites his tongue.  Like working retail is anyone's freaking ‘career path’!  What a dick.

Later, when Newt finds the toppled display of toy trucks, he barely resists the urge to kick one.

 

4.

By some miracle, Newt avoids running into any more rude customers— _ahem_ —and gets put on floor-wandering duty for the next few days. (Okay, he's supposed to be looking for things that need restocked, and organizing, and picking up stuff off the floor, but whatever, it's basically a free excuse to dance around the store for as long as he wants.  It's way less boring than cashiering on slow days.)

A loud sound startles Newt out of a twirl.  He stumbles, frantically checking the nearest aisle for anyone watching, then realizes that it was just the click of his walkie-talkie turning on.  

“He-ey, Newt,” says Tendo. “Mind coming up to the front for a sec?”

The slow drawl instantly arouses suspicion.  Newt rolls his eyes.  “Out with it, Tendo.”

“There’s a guy up here who needs to find something, that’s all.”

“This isn’t a ploy to get me to clean the bathrooms again, is it?”  Newt isn’t about to get suckered again.  Tendo’s a sneaky bastard.  

“Nah, man, just customer stuff,” says the sneaky bastard.  “Promise.”  

At least Tendo sounds believably innocent this time,  Shrugging, Newt makes a beeline for the front desk, cutting through housewares and shoving a couple of rugs back under their displays.  He can fix those later.  Right now Newt just has to help a dude find a toy for his kid or something.  

Unless Tendo is lying, in which case Newt needs to plan some good old-fashioned revenge.  

But it doesn’t come to that.  Sure enough, there’s a man standing by Tendo’s register when Newt gets up there, and Tendo actually seems to be conversing pleasantly with --

Wait.  That man has a cane.  And a godawful plaid cardigan.  

“ _Dammit_ Tendo,” Newt mutters under his breath.  Then, louder, he says, “Hey Tendo, what’s up?”  Newt plasters on his customer-service smile and tries not to act irritated.  Or scared.  Why would he be scared of a dude who dresses like an 80-year-old?  And anyway, he’s pretty sure that scary people can smell fear.  

Sweater Guy (because it’s totally him) whirls around and glares.  “Oh, for--” he says, then stops, sighing.  “I-- there’s something I need to find.”  

Tendo gives Newt a thumbs-up behind Sweater Guy’s back.  Real helpful, that Tendo.  “Yeah?” says Newt.  “I can help.  What are you looking for?”

Sweater Guy mumbles something.  “What was that?”  Newt asks.

“I need a jumper!” the other man bursts out, staring at the floor.  

Newt tries not to laugh.  The guy wants a dress?  No, wait, he’s British; he wants a sweater.  “Um, so, like the one you’re wearing, or something different?” He starts walking in the direction of the men’s department, and Sweater Guy follows.

“Not a cardie, a--err, Christmas sweater,” he says.  

Abruptly, Newt turns on his heel and takes off for the Christmas display.  Because of course the guy wants a Christmas sweater.  Really, what had Newt expected?  “Those are over here,” he says, gesturing to the rack.  

Sweater Guy nods, still avoiding eye contact, and flips through several hangers before pulling out a red-and-green monstrosity that’s covered in sparkly embroidery and felt trees.  Newt tries not to wince.  “Uh, you find one in your size?” he asks.  

“It’ll be fine,” Sweater Guy says.  Newt thinks he looks more resigned than anything, but whatever, it’s a sale.  Maybe this dude will actually leave the store happy for once.  Or at least satisfied.  Newt’s not sure he’s ever seen Sweater Guy look _happy_.  

But of course he can’t just leave it alone.  “Uh, are you sure?  We have some in more, uh, toned-down colors over here--”

Huffing, Sweater Guy holds the hanger out from his chest like a poisonous thing.  “I said this one will do.”  Then he mumbles something else, and if Newt’s not mistaken, his ears turn a little bit red at the tips.

“Sorry, what?”

“I _said_ that I have been coerced into buying this thing by a so-called friend over a-- a _bet_ ,” he says.  “Not that it’s any of your concern.”

“Sure, dude, whatever works for you,” Newt says, biting his lips to smother a giggle.  “I’ll get you up front.”  

The transaction is going perfectly well--the two exchanging few words--until suddenly it isn’t.  Newt says something like, “Have a good day, dude,” and Sweater Guy huffs and replies, “My name isn’t ‘dude,’ it’s Hermann,” and Newt says, “Oh, okay, nice to meet you, Hermann.  I bet the sweater will look great for your party,” and Sweater Guy--no, Hermann--stammers, “Ah, th-thank you, uh, Newt,” and there’s maybe just a hint of a blush on those sharp cheekbones, and--

And Newt’s heart just...stops.  

Because that is a _really_ cute smile, and no, Newt cannot do this, he will _not_ fall into a random crush on a customer, let alone one who is _so_ out of his league--and his usual tastes!--and, well.  Newt probably mumbles something like, “Sure, have a good day,” or something, and Sweater-Guy-Hermann (no, his name is actually just Hermann, come on brain, _what_ ) leaves through the front door, unaware that Newt is silently having a meltdown behind Register Two.

 _Get ahold of yourself, Newt_ , he tells himself, _this is not the first stupid crush you’ve ever had, and it won’t be the last._ The thought isn’t exactly comforting, but it’s the best he’s gonna get, because unlike Sw-- Hermann, Tendo notices Newt’s odd stillness and comes hurrying over from the main desk.  

“Newt?  You okay?” he asks, sounding worried.

Newt mentally shakes himself.  “Oh, uh.  Yeah, haha, must have zoned out there.  I’m fine, though.”  

Tendo frowns.  “The Scrooge-y guy didn’t say something weird, did he?  I thought he seemed like a pretty decent dude, but you never know...”

Scrooge?  Blinking, Newt says, “Oh, Hermann?  No, he didn’t, I mean, I’m fine.  Just got lost in thought, that’s all.”  

“Right,” says Tendo dubiously.  “So, _Hermann_ didn’t say anything, did he?”

Something must be up with Tendo, because Newt zones out all the time and never gets the third degree like this.  But Newt’s brain is too scrambled to think too hard about anything at the moment.  “No, man, seriously.  It’s fine.  I’m just-- I’m gonna go fix the rugs.” Some mindless organizing is just what the doctor ordered.   

Tendo doesn’t stop him, and even after close, Newt still can’t decide what his emotions are doing.  

 

5.

The next day, Newt has a test in one of his graduate programming courses, and his brain is so full of mush afterward that he forgets all about his inappropriate crush.  Well, until the subject of said crush walks through the door.  And with a gorgeous black woman dragging him into the store, no less.  

Newt’s cashiering, so he just stands dumbly behind the register as the two bicker their way back to--surprise, surprise--the holiday section.  They seem to be arguing and having fun, and Hermann even laughs with the unfairly pretty woman a couple of times.  She must be his girlfriend, Newt thinks, feeling ill.  And they look really good together, too, which is just--ugh.  Of course they do.  That’s just how Newt’s stupid heart works.  He always falls for the straight ones.

Wait, no, not _falls_ _for_ , Newt doesn’t even know this guy very well.  Definitely not well enough to put him in the “heartbroken” category.  Maybe just the “disappointed” category.  Or the “damn, guess I’ll be alone forever” category.  No, scratch that last one too, that’s depressing.  Newt is an adult, thank you very much, _not_ an overly-emotional teenager, and he will damn well act like it.  

Squaring his shoulders, he helps a few more customers.  They are all pleasant and polite.  That has to be a record for the pre-holiday season; four people in a row saying “thank you” and not yelling.  

Then, of course, when Newt has nearly forgotten the reason he’s trying to distract himself, Hermann and Too-Pretty-To-Be-Real Lady walk up to the his register.  With wreaths.  And _mistletoe_.  Great.  

The woman gives Newt a considering look as she puts the basket on the counter.  She whispers something to Hermann, who immediately flushes a dark red and hisses something that sounds like, “Not _here_ , Vanessa!”

And damn if that blush isn’t the cutest thing Newt’s seen on anyone.  Dammit, he’s got it bad.  He pastes on a smile.  “Did you find everything you needed?” he asks the woman--Vanessa--because he can’t look at Hermann and his adorable embarrassed face, he _cannot_.

“Yes, thank you,” says Vanessa, obviously holding back giggles.  She’s cute, too, Newt can’t help but notice.  They continue to make the typical small talk as Newt bags their things.  Then, strangely, Vanessa elbows Hermann as they turn to go.  

“Oh, yes, um.  Thank you,” Hermann says.  He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.  

“Sure,” says Newt weakly, and they leave.  

 _Guess that makes five good customers in a row_ , Newt thinks, confused, and resolves to put the odd encounter out of his mind.  Along with the whole “crush” thing.  

 

6.

Newt’s resolve lasts until Friday, when he finds himself invited to a holiday party hosted by his graduate college.  

“Aw, Mako, you gotta be kidding me,” he whines.  “I have, like, three take-home finals to work on this weekend.”  Plus, he doesn’t want to hang out with thirty other stressed-out teaching assistants when he could be at home in his pajamas watching bad reality TV.  But he doesn’t say that, because it makes him sound pathetic.  Which he kind of is, but.  It’s the principle of the thing.

“You don’t _have_ to come,” says Mako.  She’s about five foot nothing and has the best puppy dog eyes Newt has ever seen in his life.  And she knows it, too.  Thank god this is just a phone call, or Newt wouldn’t stand a chance.  “I mean, the party is tomorrow, so this is short notice.  I just didn’t want to go alone.  I can ask Chuck if he’s free--”

“Dammit, no,” Newt says quickly, “you’re not going to ask that little jerk, he’ll probably drink too much and forget about you, or something.  Fine, I’ll go.”  Chuck isn’t a bad kid, he’s just...young.  He’s an undergrad assistant in physics, and he is just not responsible enough to be trusted with his Mako, no way.  

“I am glad,” Mako says, sounding smug.  She’d played Newt yet again.  “You’re making the rest of us graduate assistants look bad, you know.  You’re always at work or in the lab.  Even Raleigh asked me if you ever sleep.”

“Science doesn’t sleep,” Newt grumbles.  So what if he doesn’t have much of a social life?  He just...wants his research to be _good_ , that’s all.  And there’s a lot of undersea research to be done, so.   “What kind of PhD student sleeps, anyway?”  

Mako picks him up right at six o’clock on Saturday, bless her.  Newt’s bike has been in the shop for a few months now, waiting for an influx of cash to pay off the engine or brakes or whatever else was busted on it this time.  Since he’s living on what amounts to a student salary, Newt basically rides the bus everywhere.  It’ll be nice to get a break from the smelly, crowded buses that made up most of the city’s public transportation.  

And now he’s going to a party, which will be full of other smelly, crowded things.  Newt grins to himself.  No one’s ever accused _him_ of being rational.

“Do I have to be DD?” he asks as he hops into Mako’s nice little car, and Mako laughs.  

“No, silly, you know I hate drinking at these things.  It’s not a real party, you have to be so-- so--”

“Dressy?” Newt suggests.  “Put-together?”

Mako nods.  “This is a work party.  If we’re lucky, we'll get to have some cheap wine and cheese for snacks.”  Wrinkling her nose, she adds, “I’m not sure I want to see our department heads drunk, anyway.”  

“Ew,” agrees Newt.  

“You can get drunk if you want to,” she says cheekily.  “You never know, maybe you’ll find someone cute to spend Christmas break mooning over.”  She winks.

“Right, I’ll hit it off with some ancient Physics professor,” Newt jokes, swallowing down the odd feeling in his stomach.  He’d already made the mistake of finding someone to moon over.  Not the best idea.

“‘Oh, Doctor,” says Mako in a high falsetto, “I don’t care if you’re forty years older, it was meant to be!’”

“Oh my god, I do _not_ sound like that!”

They both giggle like schoolgirls, and Newt finds himself relaxing again.  

When they pull up to the house--and it’s actually a home, not the school, which would probably surprise Newt less if he’d actually read the invitation--Newt feels his throat closing up.  Why was it that he forgot how much he hated being around strangers until he was at yet another party?  Maybe his subconscious had it out for him.  

Taking a couple of deep breaths, Newt walks with Mako up to the huge front door.   _Doors_.  Plural.  Jeez.  Is he underdressed?  Is his plain black button-up with his corduroys going to stand out?  Are these the corduroys that have that weird goop on them from the lab?  God, why did Newt agree to come to this at all, be real, he’s probably just going to screw it all--

“Hello,” says a pleasant voice, opening the door.  An older woman is standing there, looking casually dressy in a sparkly red cardigan and black pants.  Newt thinks he might have seen her at a department picnic or something one time.

Slowly, he feels his shoulders come down from around his ears.  Mako must have knocked on the door while Newt was getting his act together.  Cool.  Yeah.  He can do this.  Just a sweater party.  Casual.  Yeah.  

“Hi,” says Mako.  “Thanks for having us over.”  Newt echoes the sentiment and follows Mako inside like a lost puppy.  Damn, this place is _big_.  Vaulted ceilings, a chandelier, marble floors, a spiral staircase...whose house _is_ this, anyway?  And why would they lend it out to the Science departments?  Hadn’t they heard about what happened with the chemists and the _last_ Christmas party?  

“Oh, hey, food!”  Newt says, probably too loudly.  He’s just so relieved to find something familiar in this weird sparkly mansion.  Mako just laughs and shoves him in the direction of the huge buffet table, and Newt is in heaven.  

Piling his plate high with those cracker-and-cheese things labeled “canapes,” whatever that means, Newt attempts to mingle.  He’s lost sight of Mako in the crowd, but whatever, he’s an adult, he can behave himself around like 20 people.  Or maybe it’s closer to 50.  Okay, maybe Newt’s just going to stand in one corner by the massive fireplace and get crumbs all over himself until Mako comes over to drag him home.  That’s cool.  

As he stuffs another little hors d’oeuvre in his mouth, Newt decides he might as well look around.  Most of the people at the party are in their forties; likely the assistant and associate professors in each department.  The guys over sixty are definitely tenured, at least judging by the way they keep refilling their wine glasses with impunity.  Or maybe they’re Emeritus profs.  Either way, they give exactly no fucks about being caught drunk at a party.  Must be nice.  

There are a couple of girls around Newt’s age standing by the dessert table (there’s a whole _table_ just for _desserts_ , Newt’s brain emphasizes) who might be TAs in another subject.  Newt’s never seen them around.  Then again, he hasn’t exactly been sociable over the past semester, as Mako had pointed out earlier.  Newt sighs.  Being social is serious work, doesn’t anybody get that?  

When he’s just about to give up trying to salvage his waistline and go raid the dessert table, Newt’s eyes catch on something over by the front door.  Is that one of his store’s wreaths?  Huh.  It’s kind of sad that he can recognize them by the way their lights are strung (the colors go red, orange, _blue_ , yellow, green, purple, and who _does_ that, just wreck ROYGBIV like it isn’t a fundamental part of spectroscopy?   _fascists_ ).  But whatever, a lot of people buy wreaths.  

A bark of laughter draws Newt’s attention over to the kitchen area, where--yep, that’s another of Newt’s wreaths (shut up, he sold them, they’re his now).  And another.  A little curl of anxiety burrows into his belly.  Nope, no, this is not Sweater Guy’s house.  No, that would be way too rom-com, cliche, scientifically unlikely, all the horrible names in the book.  

Newt’s palms are definitely not sweating.  And he _definitely_ definitely isn’t looking around for a terrible sweater and a pair of sharp cheekbones, ha, that would be pretty sad.  

At least he doesn’t see anyone matching that description.  The icy panic he was feeling is totally under control, really...that is, until someone taps the side of a champagne glass to get everyone’s attention.  Then Newt looks up.  And, oh god.

“Hello, everyone,” Hermann says, with his stupid cute face and his stupid ugly sweater that’s three sizes too big,  “and thank you for coming.”

 


	2. Hermann

1.

It starts in late October. Much to Hermann’s chagrin, that is when Christmas decorations begin to appear in shops alongside those meant for Halloween. The date seems to creep back a little further each year. Hermann’s a bit sick of it, honestly.

But Vanessa, Hermann’s newly-married sister-in-law (and how strange is _that_ to think about)--no, Vanessa is full of Yuletide cheer year-round. She is one of those people who puts up Christmas lights on Black Friday, and a tree the day after. Vanessa collects ornaments. Vanessa loves wreaths and pine-scented candles. Vanessa is possibly the brightest, happiest person Hermann has ever met.

Hermann cannot fathom why she chooses to spend her time with a grumpy old soul like him, but he is ever grateful for it.

This gratitude, however, does not extend to helping Vanessa shop for Christmas decorations on October the 16th. “You are on your own,” he tells her firmly. “I will go with you after Thanksgiving, and no earlier.”

“But Hermann,” she says, pouting prettily, “you know I have that conference in New York the week after Thanksgiving. I won’t be able to find the time to shop then.”

As always, Hermann compromises. He can’t very well refuse his best friend (and now quasi-relative--no, he is still not thinking about the details of that) her fondest wish. “I will help you make a list. I will go--shopping. In your stead. And then you can come home and help me decorate after the first of the month.”

“Oh, you’re wonderful,” Vanessa exclaims, hugging him tightly around the middle.

Hermann clears his throat. “Yes, well. You would be insufferable if I didn’t.”

“You big softie,” she says. “You know you loooove me.”

Heaving a theatrical sigh, Hermann nevertheless cracks a smile. “Yes, I suppose I do.” He pats Vanessa’s back. Her hair tickles his nose.

With a suspicious sniffle, Vanessa pulls away, grinning. “You have to get a Christmas sweater, Hermann.”

“I most emphatically do not. I draw the line there.”

“No LED strands, just the fun tinsel ones?” wheedles Vanessa. Her smile is, as ever, unfortunately devastating.

“ _No_ , Vanessa, I will not be seen in one of those things,” Hermann says in what he hopes is a firm tone. (He suspects it is closer to “highly manipulable,” but there’s no helping that.)

“Hermann.”

“Vanessa.”

“ _Hermann_.”

Throwing up his hands, Hermann gives up. “You won’t quit, will you?”

“Never,” Vanessa says sweetly. “I thought you learned that with Karla.”

Hermann groans. “One might think that, yes. But your courting my sister has very little to do with my desire _not_ to humiliate myself in public.”

Vanessa’s smile turns wicked. “Since when did you need my help to do that?” she says. “Come on, Hermann, it’s only for one party.”

“Party?” Hermann squeaks. No, _says_. In a normal tone, like a normal person who absolutely does not squeak.

Eyes wide, Vanessa says, “Oh, yes, didn’t Karla tell you? She and your brothers want to throw a party to celebrate you getting your PhD next semester. And they figured, hey, since we were all in town on Christmas, why not do it then, right?” Her innocent look is not at all convincing.

“Right,” Hermann says weakly. Of _course_ Bastien and Dietrich would want to throw a party. And of course they would want to ostensibly do it for Hermann, to _force_ him to attend. How are those socialites related to him, again? Had he been adopted into a family of deranged people? Was he secretly an alien who landed in the backyard?

Hermann rubs at his temples with one hand, as if that would help banish the headache that threatens there. Seeing this, Vanessa takes pity on him. “Look, honey, we don’t have to do this if you really don’t want to. I’m sure the boys will understand.”

“I know they’ll understand,” Hermann says, slumping into a nearby armchair. “That’s not the issue. _They_ want to do this, and since they didn’t get to throw you a lavish engagement party, they want to do this to make up for it.” He sighs. “I should probably let them. Besides, I can tell that you’re excited already.”

Vanessa pets Hermann’s head soothingly. “You’re right, as usual. Sometimes I forget how perceptive you are.” Her fingers tangle in his hair as she ruffles it. “But you don’t have to be all self-sacrificing about this, you know. We’ll be just as happy having a small dinner with everyone.”

“That’s what we did for your wedding, Ness,” Hermann argues. “If Dietrich and Bastien want to do something special, I shall just...prepare myself for it.”

“You’re a long-suffering bastard, you know that?” says Vanessa fondly. “But thanks. I’ll let the boys know that you’re on board. They might call with suggestions; I can’t stop them.”

“Oh, don’t I know it. Once they get their minds set on something...”

“...they never let it go. I know. Karla’s the same way.” Vanessa shoots a look down at Hermann. “You’re more like them than you think you are.”

“Oh, I definitely am not.” The idea was laughable.

Vanessa’s raised eyebrow brooks no argument. “From where I’m sitting--” on the leg of his chair, quite close actually--“you really, really are.”

Hermann can’t precisely argue with that.

 

2.

Hermann holds out--against Vanessa’s wishes, but this is for his own _sanity_ , damn it--until the week before Thanksgiving. Then he decides that, to beat the awful rush, he should probably get the first round of decorations purchased early. He’d been planning to wait for Vanessa to set everything up, anyway. She can make returns later if Hermann buys something inappropriate.

The problem is that Hermann hasn’t the slightest clue what is needed for a holiday party. Because of this, he is using four different Christmas lists to shop: one from Vanessa, and one from each of his three siblings. He looks down at the small pile of papers in his hand and sighs. This might take awhile.

Because the store he chooses is one of the few large enough to have a dedicated Christmas section, Hermann expects crowds. He steels himself for this as he walks through the automatic doors.

But there are no angry mothers or screaming babies in prams. Instead, the store seems well-lit, accessible even with his cane, and fairly well-organized. Glancing around, Hermann sees a man with a bowtie at one register, a startlingly blonde woman at another, and a short, tattooed man juggling behind the Customer Service desk. Hermann is surprised to find himself amused by it.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

He makes his way carefully around the displays until he reaches the Christmas lights. Vanessa has written “2 strands, at least 150, LEDs” on her list, and Bastien has written “GET A THOUSAND.” The other two lists are no more helpful than Bastien’s, so Hermann combines the two and throws five or six boxes of multicolored strands in his cart. They’ll get sorted out later.

Later that evening, he Skypes Vanessa to make sure he bought the right thing. “Sure, sweetheart,” she says, smiling. “Just get whatever you think will make the house look pretty.”

“I’m not an interior decorator,” Hermann grumbles, but is secretly pleased that she trusts him to choose what he likes for the party.

He returns to the store three times that week, first to get a wreath or two, and then to procure some groceries and treats for himself. Having the big house to himself can be nice, but it’s most bearable when he has frozen dinners to fall back on when his pain levels are high. The winter weather is not often kind to his joints.

One thing that Hermann has been putting off is the Christmas tree itself. Vanessa had mentioned wanting to make it the centerpiece of the foyer, and while that sounded like a good idea in theory, Hermann is now sure that she has completely lost it. Where are they going to store an eight-foot Christmas tree? And how is Hermann supposed to pick it up, let alone get it _home_?

After swallowing his pride, he tests a few boxes for weight, and finally finds an artificial tree that he can lift easily. Perhaps this one will do. Hope rising, he looks up its item number, finds it on the display, and--

It’s only three feet tall.

It would make the saddest room centerpiece ever. Hermann glares at the little tree, as if sheer frustration could suddenly make his damned body less frail, and for the first time leaves the store without buying anything at all.

 

3.

Hermann breaks down and buys a few of the little trees for the living and dining room areas. They’re small enough to be cute without being too flashy. And he perhaps feels a little bit of comradely sympathy for the little neglected things being left on the shelf. (He vows not to admit to this last, even under threat of torture, but he suspects Vanessa knows.)

Today, he is on a mission to find something a little different. Having convinced Hermann to order a larger tree to be delivered to the house (and assembled), he must now purchase ornaments and other decorations to put on the thing. Wonderful.

Rolling his eyes, Hermann makes the familiar trek back to the Christmas display. He doesn’t quite make it there, though; something catches and his bad leg gives out. He hits the floor hard, coming to with bits of glass sticking every which way out of one hand, and probably his bum, and a tree half-toppled next to him. His leg burns something fierce, and he _desperately_ hopes he hasn’t torn a ligament; the last time he’d slipped on the ice it had meant five months of physical therapy.

“Goddamn fucking bloody spruces,” he curses, brushing glittery shards from his trousers with his uninjured hand.

The _crunch_ of broken glass under a boot is the only warning Hermann gets that someone is coming up behind him. It’s the tattooed juggling man. _Don’t ask if I need help_ , Hermann thinks, pride smarting nearly as much as his arse. _Don’t ask, don’t ask, do_ not _ask._

The man blinks down at him through large, dark glasses. "They're firs, dude."

Hermann squints at him. "What?" Did this strange little man just correct Hermann on his knowledge of- of _botany_?

The man starts to go on about evergreens, and tree needles or something, while Hermann picks a few tiny glass shards from his palm. Is this man _serious_?

Bringing himself to rights, Hermann stands. "I do not _care_ about the needles, Mr..."--here he is embarrassed to find that he can barely read the scrawl on the smaller man’s nametag--“Guy Fieri?” Hermann is genuinely baffled. What kind of name is that? Is it Italian?

The man flushes a blotchy red. "Oh, goddammit, Tendo. Yeah no, uh, my name's Newt. Newt Geiszler.”

The man--Newt? is that a nickname? surely no one would name a child for an amphibian--sticks out a hand, but Hermann’s right hand is still bleeding sluggishly, and he is grasping the cane with the left. Staring at the proffered hand, he thinks, _I didn’t want help, but this is not much better._ At least Hermann hopes he was thinking that, and not saying it aloud. His brain is a bit scrambled at the moment.

Apologizing for breaking the display, Hermann prepares to grab some tinsel and be done with it. But the man--Geiszler--keeps talking.

“Nah, no problem,” he says airily, and then launches into some description of small children or some such doing the exact same thing that Hermann just did.

Hermann goes cold. Because of course this young, pretty, _able-bodied_ man thinks that Hermann is clumsy in the same way a _child_ is clumsy. Not that he is strong for standing tall through bright-flashing pain radiating to one hip, oh no, that would be foolish to expect. No one thinks that of Hermann. Yet he can’t quell the sick feeling, the knowledge that he is useless and weak and stupid for even _trying_ to--

No. Not here. He will _not_ embarrass himself here. Swallowing hard, Hermann blurts something that is nothing like an apology and escapes as quickly as he can.

He is sure the tattooed man is laughing somewhere behind him.

 

4.

It is three days before Hermann feels up to going back to the store. He never had gotten those ornaments, after all.

(“Quit moping,” Vanessa had told him. “If the guy’s a dick, ignore him. But from what you told me, he didn’t say anything wrong, you were just snippy because you were hurting. And...did you say he was cute?”

Hermann had hung up on her.)

In any case, Hermann finds himself back at the store just before Thanksgiving proper. Luckily, he had only pulled a muscle in his leg, and it is feeling much better. He rubs the offending limb absently as he stares in the toy display. (“Find a couple toys for Juergen,” Vanessa had said. “Dietrich will love you for it.”)

There was one problem with that assessment. Yes, Dietrich and his son would likely play with almost anything, and Hermann had a few of his old toys stashed away in the attic, but...what did a four-year-old boy play with?

After searching the racks for what feels like an hour, Hermann decides to buy a toy truck, leaving the rest of the gift-giving to Vanessa. He spots a brightly-colored display and heads for it. Tugging one of the toys from the stack is harder than it looks, however; Hermann immediately regrets reaching for one at eye-level when approximately three hundred plastic trucks come raining down into the aisle. (Thankfully, Hermann is quick enough to hop out of the way and is not injured again. That would have been mortifying.)

Though someone surely heard the loud crash, no one comes to investigate. Hermann putters around for a bit before tucking the biggest truck from the pile under one arm.

When he gets to the front, he is irritated to see that the only open register is manned by--ugh--that man with the tattoos and the over-large glasses. Hermann grits his teeth and sets the toy on the floor next to the register. It should be easier to scan there, and it will be less likely that Hermann will be expected to make eye contact. Better all around, really.

Giselle--no, Geiszler--doesn’t seem to notice Hermann’s presence. “Excuse me,” Hermann says, as politely as he can manage.

Geiszler just stares at him for a moment. Hermann can’t help but stare back. Does he have something on his face? He clears his throat self-consciously, and looks toward the truck on the floor, thinking that perhaps it was harder to see the toy from behind the counter.

“Oh, sorry, my bad,” Geiszler says, reaching for the toy. He seems pretty genuinely apologetic; enough so that Hermann almost feels bad for misjudging him. Perhaps the man is just having an off...week. He pays and prepares to leave.

Then Geiszler makes a crucial mistake. Obviously remembering the last time he saw Hermann, the man asks, “Do you need any help out today?” as if Hermann hadn’t carried the damn thing up here himself.

Hermann gives the man his most quelling glare, the one that always works on rambunctious students. “I assure you that I am _quite_ able of walking out of here on my own,” he says.

“Uh, no, I just--” Geiszler starts, turning a fetching shade of pink. _No, Hermann,_ he chastises himself, _we are not going there. No. That is not something you should find_ cute, _dear God_.

Hermann barely hears the rest of the stammered apology. He snaps at Geiszler out of sheer embarrassment, sure that the other man can read Hermann’s inappropriate thoughts on his face, and practically runs out the door.

 

5.

A day or so later, Hermann finds his list still incomplete. Vanessa will be home in less than a week, and surely she will want to have all of her decorations ready to set up, won’t she?

Groaning, he re-reads her third text of the day: “ _Stop stressing, luv! Get urself a sweater 4 the party. As gaudy as you can find. Don’t 4get I have pics of u in grade school! Cheers xx Ness._ ” Why she felt she had to blackmail him into a silly jumper, Hermann would never know. Then again, without her threats, he might have picked something far more low-key than what she had in mind. (She’d even sent photos of awful Christmas-themed jumpers as examples. Diabolical woman.)

And so, Hermann finds himself yet again standing in the big shop on the corner. And there is no way on Earth he will be able to find a jumper by himself.

Luckily, someone sees Hermann’s baffled look and takes pity on him. It’s the man with the bowties--today it is red-and-white striped--and his nametag says “Tendo the Magnificent.”

“Hey, you look lost. Can I help you with something?” Tendo asks politely.

Hermann is so relieved not to have to deal with Geiszler that he physically sags. “Yes, please. I need to find some clothes for a party.”

Tendo grins, his teeth straight and white. ( _Does this store intentionally hire unconventionally attractive people, or is it just a coincidence?_ Hermann wonders.) “Yeah, man, I can call someone up to help you.”

“Oh,” Hermann says. “You can’t do it?” He hates how pathetic he sounds.

Shaking his head, Tendo says apologetically, “No, gotta watch the front of the store while we’re unloading a truck out back. But someone will meet you here in a jiffy!”

Hermann nods and pretends to be interested in his Oxfords as Tendo turns away to talk into his radio. He can’t quite catch the hissed words, and he is fairly certain that is a good thing.

After a few moments of pleasant small-talk with Tendo, Hermann hears someone approaching.

“Hey Tendo, what’s up?” says a familiar voice, and Hermann freezes. Surely his luck isn’t _this_ atrocious.

But of course it is. Turning, Hermann finds himself face-to-face with none other than his ill-advised subject of attraction, smiling. “Oh, for--” he starts, then for once manages to stop himself before cursing the heavens aloud. He takes a deep breath. _In, out._ “I-- there’s something I need to find,” he manages. _Quite an intelligent statement, there, Hermann,_ he berates himself, _as though it weren’t obvious why you are standing there._

“Yeah? I can help,” Geiszler says cheerily. He appears to do everything cheerily, which should get on Hermann’s nerves, but strangely does not. “What are you looking for?”

_You_ , says Hermann’s traitorous brain. “Ah, a- a jumper,” he mumbles, hoping that looking straight downward will mask the burning in his cheeks.

“What was that?”

“I need a jumper!” Hermann all-but-shouts, likely redder than ever.

Geiszler bites his lip for a moment. It does not call Hermann’s attention to his lips, and if it did, Hermann would ignore it. “Um, so, like the one you’re wearing, or something different?” The other man turns to walk toward the clothing department, obviously expecting Hermann to follow, and so he does.

“Not a cardie--” Hermann tries to think of the American slang--“a, err, Christmas sweater.” Then he almost runs into Geiszler as the man makes an about-face, and wouldn’t _that_ have been awful. Tripping over his own feet once in this man’s presence was quite enough for one lifetime, thank you.

Geiszler points out the rack full of red and green jumpers. All of the possibilities are hideous; Hermann supposes he must pick the most hideous of the bunch. He finally selects one that has a mass of silver glitter tacked to it in seven places, and eyes it distastefully.

“Uh, you find one in your size?” Geiszler asks carefully.

Hermann tries to imagine himself wearing this ugly thing. It’s even more awful in his mind’s eye. “It’ll be fine.” Nessa would love it. That is the only reason he is doing this. For Nessa, to make her happy, and to avoid her wrath. Possibly more the latter than the former at this point.

Understandably, Geiszler appears concerned by Hermann’s choice. “Uh, are you sure? We have some in more, uh, toned-down colors over here--”

“I _said_ ,this one will do.” _Do it for Nessa_ , his brain reminds him, _and whatever you do, do_ not _picture Geiszler picking out a cute sweater for you._ “Stop it,” he hisses to himself.

Geiszler frowns and leans in a little. “Sorry, what?”

Shit, did he say that aloud? Hermann thinks fast. “I said that I have been coerced into buying this thing by a so-called friend over a-- a _bet_ ,” he lies. “Not that it’s any of your concern.” _Yes, Hermann, that is the perfect way to make friends. Be rude to them._ He grits his teeth to stop himself talking.

Thankfully, Hermann manages to follow Geiszler back up to the register without further incident. He even manages to introduce himself by name to Geiszler--no, Newt--with most of his prickliness tucked away.

But then. Then, Ge-- Newt says, “Nice to meet you, Hermann, I bet the sweater will look great for your party,” and Hermann feels himself flush again, this time with a different sort of heat. A nicer sort. The sort that makes one smile foolishly.

And Hermann has no idea what to do with this. “Ah, th-thank you,” he says, “uh--” _don’t call him Geiszler_ \--“Newt.”

_Nailed it,_ says Nessa’s voice in his head.

For the first time in a long time, Hermann’s steps feel lighter as he leaves.

 

6.

Vanessa returns home that evening, when Hermann’s stomach is still a bit strange and fluttery, and she immediately notices that something about him is different.

“How was your flight?” Hermann asks, hoping to distract her.

“Oh, you know, same old,” Vanessa says, flopping on the oversized couch and heaving a sigh. “Tiring, but fine.”

The light from the gas fireplace makes everything look warm and soft. “I’m glad you’re home,” Hermann says quietly.

Vanessa grins over at him. “I noticed, darling, you texted me at least once a day. That’s got to be a record.”

He rolls his eyes. “Come now, I’m not that poor of a communicator.”

“You are when you’re stressing out about something,” Vanessa retorts. “But something tells me this time was a bit different.”

Playing dumb might be his best bet. “Yes, well, I don’t often find myself preparing for a party by myself. It was a rather new experience.”

“ _Rather_ ,” Vanessa repeats in her slow drawl. “You know that’s not what I mean. Spill.”

Hermann blinks. “I don’t know what you mean.” Damn it, now he’s gone and lied to her, and she’ll know something is going on. The jig is up.

Vanessa’s raised eyebrow speaks volumes.

Feeling the odd urge to fiddle with his collar, Hermann says, “Well, it was not an altogether unpleasant undertaking.”

Still Vanessa says nothing. Hermann is starting to feel like an insect pressed under a glass.

After a few more moments of silence, Hermann yields. “Fine, alright, I may have made a-- an acquaintance, at the shop where I bought all this rubbish.” He gestures irritably at the wreaths, lights, and other accoutrements that are piled haphazardly around the room.

The smirk on Vanessa’s face does not bode well. “An acquaintance, hm?” she says mildly. “Does this person have a name?”

Hermann isn’t fooled for a moment. “His name is Newt Geiszler,” he says through his teeth. “And that is all I will say on the matter.”

“You’re awfully tetchy about a simple acquaintance, Hermann.” Vanessa actually looks a bit concerned, and Hermann softens “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, everything’s fine,” he says ruefully. “My emotions are in flux because of the season, I think.”

Vanessa shoots him a sympathetic look. “Yeah, winter’s always kinda tough, huh?”

“Isn’t it just.” Physically, the cold and the wet are bad enough, but tying in the shorter, gloomier days and increased stress at the university, Hermann had never been terribly fond of the Christmas holiday season.

“If this Newt guy ever hurts you, in _any_ way, you know you can come to me.” Vanessa’s serious look makes this a statement, not a question.

Hermann smiles. “Of course, darling.”

At this, Vanessa seems to relax. “Alright then. But you’re gonna tell me all about your boy in the morning, understand?” She yawns hugely.

“He’s-- not _my_ anything--” Hermann starts to protest, then realizes that Vanessa’s eyes are closed, her face calm and still. Sighing, he grabs a blanket to pull over her. He can always argue with her in the morning.

 

7.

The next day, Vanessa shows up at Hermann’s office. Her timing is suspiciously good; she appears just as he finishes putting in his students’ lab grades.

“What do you want?” Hermann asks, resigned to whatever she has up her sleeve.

Vanessa leans against the doorframe and grins. “You promised to take me out to finish shopping for the party this week,” she says. “I figured now would be the best time to catch you in-between assignments.”

She’s not wrong. Hermann sighs. “Alright, I can bring the rest of this home. Let me pack up and I’ll meet you at the car.”

Twenty minutes later, he finds himself being dragged by the arm--like a child!--into his shop. No, not _his_ shop, just _the_ shop. Just because he’s become something of a regular doesn’t mean he owns the place. How silly.

Somehow, Vanessa’s holiday sixth sense tells her exactly where the seasonal decorations are in the store, and she yanks him to the correct area, Hermann protesting all the way.

“Ah, I love the smell of pine in the morning,” she says, standing in the middle of the Christmas tree forest and waving her arms about.

“You look like a loon,” says Hermann fondly, “and you are smelling the Pine-Sol cleaner, not these artificial trees.”

“Spoilsport,” Vanessa says, sticking her tongue out and petting one of the Christmas trees. “Don’t listen to him, babies,” she coos, “he’s just a grumpy old man.”

Hermann laughs; he can’t help it. “We’re here to get two more wreaths for the front doors, and that is all,” he reminds her.

“Oh, fiiine,” she says, still giggling. “On one condition. We also have to get some mistletoe.”

“God, no,” Hermann groans. “We are not having _that_ kind of party.”

“I know, I know, you’re inviting your ‘work friends,’” says Vanessa. Her tone makes the air quotes obvious. “I’ll make sure everyone behaves. But you _have_ to let me get wine and mistletoe. They’re practically a requirement for holiday parties. Please?”

Rolling his eyes, Hermann grabs two boxes of faux mistletoe and a couple of wreaths to put in their tiny basket. “Fine, happy now?”

Vanessa’s smile is beatific. “Certainly, darling,” she says, dragging him to the liquor section.

Three bottles of red wine (and one of white; Hermann insists that he is not a _heathen_ , he does have _some_ taste for wine) later, they find themselves waiting in line to check out.

Hermann deeply regrets that his brain is taking the phrase “checking out” entirely the wrong way. Because, of course, Newt is there to help them, and Vanessa is currently reading the man’s name tag with a horrifyingly calculating look on her face.

This cannot end well. God help him.

Vanessa leans over to whisper in Hermann’s ear. “So, this is your boy? He’s cute. You should ask him to the party.”

Surely, _surely_ Newt has noticed Hermann’s humiliation, because Hermann’s face feels like it is on _fire_. “Not _here_ , Vanessa!” he hisses out of the corner of his mouth, trying to regain his self-control. He does his best to smile politely at Newt as though nothing is wrong.

It is obvious that Vanessa is trying to hold in her laughter throughout the eons-long transaction. She gives Hermann a couple of significant looks, likely prompting him to make conversation, but he doesn’t trust his voice at the moment, so she can just go stuff it.

Finally, Vanessa has had it with the pointed glares, and aims one bony elbow at Hermann’s ribs. He grunts with surprise, and then realizes that their transaction is, blessedly, over. Newt is watching them with an odd look on his face.

Right. Manners. “Oh, yes, um, thank you,” Hermann stammers. He fidgets uncomfortably. What is that look supposed to _mean_?

“Sure,” says Newt quietly, looking away.

Vanessa gives Hermann’s elbow another tug, and he follows her out to the car, feeling more off-balance than ever.

 

8.

The day of the party dawns bright and clear, and Hermann feels like neither of these things. Arms aching from holding up wreaths and lights while Vanessa hung them, leg stiff from standing around waiting for the caterers to finish working in the kitchen, brain full of guest lists and flight schedules and arrangements for the children--it all adds up to one unhappy host.

The tension in his head and neck feels a lot like a hangover, and the party hasn’t even taken place yet. This does not bode well.

Dietrich, his wife Sofia, and their son Juergen will be arriving at noon, and Vanessa will pick them up from the airport. Karla and Bastien will be taking cabs to the house a few hours later, and both will be staying at the big house, while Dietrich’s family has a room at a nearby hotel.

All of the party organization has fallen on Vanessa, who has performed admirably under stress, and continues to be Hermann’s guardian angel in terms of party planning. Hermann doesn’t know what he’d do without her. (Except not have a party at all, but that is beside the point. He _is_ looking forward to seeing his family again. Even if the circumstances are rather more stressful than is ideal.)

It makes things easier to remember that the holiday gathering is really intended for his loved ones. Karla has been away for several weeks at a business conference, and Hermann knows that Vanessa has missed her terribly. They may well not see his brothers again for some time, either, given all of their busy schedules and vastly different living areas.

And Hermann himself will be leaving for a post-doctoral semester of research in January. Only Vanessa knows as of yet, but Hermann plans to announce his travel plans at the party. The mathematician Hermann will be studying under is very well-regarded in his field, and--even better--has offered to pay room and board for Hermann while he is at Oxford, plus a stipend. (There may have been whoops of glee uttered when Hermann received the offer letter. He’ll never tell.)

Even after hours of preparation, the time arrives too soon. It is 5:45 PM, Bastien is nowhere to be found, and Dietrich is making one last ice run. The wine bottles have yet to be uncorked, the shrimp cocktails are still frozen--

“I can hear you worrying from over here,” Vanessa says into Hermann’s ear, making him jump.

“Good God, woman, warn me next time,” he gasps.

Vanessa just smiles. “Everything is going to be just fine. Nobody’s expecting a posh soiree. They just want to hang out and eat free food. You were a college student once; don’t you remember?”

Hermann shoots her an unimpressed look. “I only finished my dissertation last month.”

“And would _you_ have cared if someone had forgotten about the shrimp cocktails?”

She has a point. “Alright, I’ll try to stop worrying.”

“Good.” Vanessa pats his arm. “Now, I’m going to go see if Sofia needs help with the playroom. You go get your special sweater on, hm?”

“I’d hoped you’d forgotten about that,” Hermann mutters darkly.

“Not in a million years,” Vanessa says, still smiling. “Now be a dear and go get dressed.”

Before long, several guests have arrived, and Hermann is paradoxically feeling better about the whole event.

Everyone is dressed nicely, but not too formally. A few people have started picking up plates to fill with hors d’oeuvres. The shrimp cocktails are actually where they’re supposed to be. Hermann’s siblings (and Vanessa; she practically counts as one of them) are mingling, and seem to be having a good time. Even the department heads and professors are chatting with the younger members of their fields.

Given all of this, Hermann is a bit surprised to find himself happily standing on the sidelines. A few people come over to say hello, namely the Wei siblings--they’re a famous group at uni, one of them in each of chemistry, physics, and astronomy--and Hermann spends a pleasant half-hour chatting with them about the intersections between their fields. And then Mako Mori, a nice young woman who works as a research assistant in the biomedical lab, also comes over and chats for a bit about their new computers.

Riding high on his social successes of the evening, small as they may be, Hermann decides that this is as good a time as any to announce his future plans.

He nods to Vanessa, and she taps lightly on her water glass to quiet everyone down. .

Hermann takes a deep breath. “Hello everyone,” he begins, “and thank you for coming.”


	3. Both

1.

Newt barely hears the rest of the speech--something about getting a degree and leaving the country or something--because he’s too busy scoping out the exits.  After he’s out of this room, yeah, leaving the country sounds pretty damn good!

The problem is, there’s a crowd between himself and nearly any exit (save the window, which Newt dismisses as too conspicuous.  Plus, you know, the whole “broken glass” thing doesn’t sound fun).  Wiping his palms on his pants, he tries to stand up and move toward the door without calling attention to himself.   Hermann is just now finishing by saying “thanks again for being here” or whatever.  

Unfortunately, because Newt is clumsy to begin with and anxiety doesn’t help his coordination any, he steps too close to the metal grate in front of the fireplace and nearly catches his ass on fire. His yelp of surprise is--hopefully--masked by the sounds of people saying “cheers!”--but Newt isn’t going to count on it.  He has to get outta there, and _fast_.

Shoving past people as politely as possible, Newt scrambles out of the room, past the big staircase, and to the spare bedroom beyond.  The lights are off, which suits him just fine.  (He is not _hiding_ , he is making a tactical retreat.  That is a thing that normal people do.)  He sits crouched on the floor against the fancy looking bed  It looks so fancy with its lace-edged pillowcases, not to mention the velvety pillows, and he doesn’t want to mess it up.  

Maybe he can just stay in here until Mako comes and finds him.  That would be good.  Still not hiding, though.

A soft knock on the door surprises Newt into looking up.  A woman stands in the doorway, illuminated by the hall light, but her shadow is way too tall to be Mako.  Plus, her hair is big and curly, not cut short and sleek like Mako’s.  Who--?

“I thought I saw you run in here,” says a soft, melodic voice.  “You alright?”  She flips the light on as she steps into the room.  

Newt just stares at her until she sits down next to him.  Oh.  Great.  It’s Hermann’s stunningly beautiful girlfriend.  Just his luck.  “Heh, nah, I’m fine,” he says.  Damn that shaky voice of his; it sounds upset practically all the time.  And squeaky, and weird, and _annoying_ , and--

The woman just tilts her head at him disbelievingly.  “I’m just not great with crowds,” he mumbles.  “S’no big deal.”  

“I’m not trying to challenge you,” she says carefully.  “Just wanted to make sure you were okay.  That we didn’t do anything to make you uncomfortable.  I can leave if you like.”  

Newt feels a bit guilty.  It’s not this lady’s fault she’s gorgeous _and_ dating his crush.  Or that she’s genuinely nice, too, which just makes Newt feel worse.  Triple-whammy.  He studies the carpet by one foot.  “Yeah, thanks, but no.  I’m good.  You can go spend time with your boyfriend; I’ll be out in a sec.”  Newt is lying, of course; he plans to stay in here for as long as he physically can.  But saying that kind of thing usually makes people feel better and leave him alone, so.  

The lady chokes.  Newt looks over, concerned.  “My-- my boyfriend?” she manages.  “Hermann?  Oh, darling, no.”  Her choking turns into full-out cackling, and Newt is just confused.  

“Uh,” he says intelligently.  “Wha-?  So you’re...”

“Vanessa Gottlieb, at your service,” the woman--Vanessa--says, mock-bowing as best she can while seated.  “I married Hermann’s sister.”

Newt thinks hard for a second.  Okay.  Okay.  He’s got this.  “Nice to meet you, Vanessa.”  Aw yeah, it came out right!  He sticks out a hand triumphantly, and Vanessa shakes it, still quivering with held-back laughter.  “Yeah, yeah, okay, I get it, I’m a dumbass,” Newt says ruefully.  “But you probably get where I’m coming from, right?  I mean, you both seem to like Christmas stuff, and you’re both pretty, and--” _oh god someone stop me why can’t I shut up_ \--“uh, you know.  You seem close?”

Vanessa presses her lips together.  Newt sort of appreciates the attempt to stop laughing, but really, she’s not very good at it.  “We are,” she says, when she can get a breath.  “We’ve been friends since he moved here in elementary school.  He introduced me to Karla, too,” she smirks, “which I think he regrets, sometimes.”  

“No way, dude, you’re cool,” Newt protests.  

She laughs.  “Thank you.  Now, I really must be going.”  Standing, she leaves the room, saying casually to the hallway, “You can go in there now.  It’s safe.”

And...what?  Did Newt miss something?  Vanessa throws a wink back at him.  Yeah, no, that didn’t help.  She probably wasn’t talking to him, anyway.  Then who--

Newt’s stomach sinks to the floor.  He must have zero luck.  None.  Nada.  Because who else would _possibly_ come into the room but Hermann?  

 

2.

Raising his glass of sparkling wine, Hermann feels an immense sense of accomplishment as everyone toasts him.  

He steps down from his makeshift podium beside the dessert table.  Immediately, his happy bubble is burst by Vanessa elbowing him in the side.  “What?” he squawks.  “What did I do?”

Vanessa is grinning hugely.  “You didn’t tell me you invited him!”

“Um.”  Hermann’s brain is still in _celebrate_ mode.  “Who?”

“What do you mean, _who_?”  Her eyes narrow.  

A rather unpleasant feeling is settling near Hermann’s ribcage.  “I genuinely have no idea what you mean.  Should I?”   _Dear God, don’t let my father be here.  Wait, no, Vanessa wouldn’t be pleased if_ he _attended.  Then who--?_

The smile drops off Vanessa’s face.  “You _didn’t_ invite him, did you.  Newt.”

Oh God.  “No,” Hermann says, knees threatening to buckle.  “I, ah.  He’s-- here?”

“Yes, darling, he’s here,” she says, scanning the crowd.  “Or he was.  I think he ran off for a moment.  Lemme see if I can find out where he went.”  

“S-sure.  I’ll come along.”  

Vanessa’s considering look is not reassuring.  

“I am coming with you,” he repeats firmly.  

She shrugs.  “Fine, but stay back a bit, okay?  He looked kind of...spooked, when he saw you.”  

_Me?  Why on Earth would he panic upon seeing_ me _?_

Despite his misgivings, he lags behind Vanessa a bit, standing in the hallway when she ducks inside a dark room and flips on the light.  The quiet voices he hears inside are both reassuring and terrifying; reassuring because it means that his crush--his _acquaintance--_ has not left his house upset, and terrifying because he has _no_ earthly idea what they are saying, and they are likely talking about _him_.  

Oh, _God_.  

Finally, when Hermann is sure his legs are going to vibrate clean off, Vanessa emerges.  She throws a baffling wink back into the room and whispers to Hermann,  “Be gentle.  I think he got the wrong first impression.”

_He’s not the only one,_ Hermann thinks, but nods.  

As he steps into the room, his cane making a muffled thumps against the carpet, his first thought is, _I hadn’t realized Geiszler was this short_ , and then, _oh, he’s sitting on the ground_.  Not Hermann’s finest mental moment.  

Newt is staring at him with something akin to horror in his eyes.  What did Vanessa _say_ to him?  “I, ah--” _apologize, you nitwit_ \--“I am very sorry if I made you feel un- unwelcome in any way,” Hermann says, internally wincing at how formal that sounded.  

The man on the floor simply stares at him.  Well, Hermann can take a hint.  He nods and turns to leave.  

“N- no, hey dude, wait,” Newt says, scrambling to his feet.  “It’s not you.”  

Hermann is not sure what to say to that, so he simply waits.  

Newt runs a hand over his face.  “Yeah, that was all me.  Sorry I ran out on your speech.”  

Squinting in confusion, Hermann blurts,  “Why are you here?”   _Oh, bloody hell, Hermann, that is not the right way to talk to people.  Stop putting your foot in your damn mouth._ “I mean,” he tries again, “you didn’t know this party was for me, did you?”

Obviously Newt did not know, judging by the way his eyebrows shoot up.  “Wait, that means this is _your_ house?”

“Ye-es,” Hermann says cautiously.  

But Newt grins.  “You have the coolest place, dude, seriously, it’s freaking huge!”

Some of the tension leaches out of Hermann’s shoulders.  He tries a smile.  “Ah, thank you?”  

“Do you have a movie theater in here somewhere?”

“No, I’m afraid not.  But we do have an in-house gym.”.   

“Really?  Where?”  Newt looks fascinated, but does not yet know Hermann well enough to recognize the placid look that Vanessa calls his “bullshitting face.”  This is convenient.  

“Oh, it’s right behind you,” says Hermann.  Newt whirls around, only to see a treadmill and a small set of hand-weights in the corner.  

“Aw, come _on_ ,” Newt says, but to Hermann’s delight he’s smiling.  “That was low.”  

Hermann can’t resist.  “As I am the tallest person in the room, perhaps I’m not the one to talk about what is ‘low.’”

Newt’s deadpan stare makes Hermann chuckle, and Newt giggles too.  Soon they’re both clutching their sides with laughter, and Hermann for one feels much better for it.  

“So...I didn’t offend you, then?” Hermann asks when he finally catches a breath.  

“Nah,” Newt says, stretching distractingly.  “Except by, y’know, being in math and calling yourself part of the College of Sciences.”  

For a moment, Hermann puffs up with irritation, but then he sees Newt’s grin.  He decides to play along.  “Well, yes, you are correct about that.  We really should have our own department.  Mathematics is, after all, the basis upon which all science is derived.”

“Hah, you wish!”  Newt flaps one hand as he walks out of the room.  “Now, if you want to talk about derivations in biology, which is a _real_ science by the way, you gotta start with single-celled organisms...”

Hermann follows, smiling secretively.  

 

3.

Newt loses time talking to Hermann about their disciplines, their families...anything, really.  They can’t seem to agree on a single topic, and yet Newt feels himself settling into an easy rhythm of laughter and ribbing with this strange, hideous-sweater-wearing man, who is so animated and passionate when he goes off on a diatribe about applied versus theoretical mathematics.  (For once Newt doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s watching Hermann more closely than is strictly professional.)  

As the party winds down, a few people come by the little seating area to say their congratulations and goodbyes to Hermann.  Newt realizes, after his throat has gone kind of scratchy and the noise has died down significantly, that they’ve been off sitting in their own little world for close to three hours.  

“Oh, damn,” he says, trying to sound natural.  “Sorry, I, uh, didn’t mean to make you miss your own party.”  

Hermann waves a hand dismissively.  “Nonsense.  This whole thing was my brothers’ idea.  They wanted to get everyone together, and they can be quite annoying when they don’t get their way.”

Somehow Newt doesn’t think that’s the whole truth.  “You didn’t want to see your brothers before you leave the country?”

“We’re having them over tomorrow,” Hermann explains.  “I’m not my best when there are a lot of people around, so I figured a private gathering would be best.  They just wanted to see me at some point.  And Vanessa insisted that I wear my ‘most gay apparel.’”  

“All _my_ apparel is gay apparel,” Newt says, smirking at Hermann’s exaggerated eye-roll.  “I take it your sibs didn’t invite all your work buddies, then?”

“No, that was Vanessa’s idea.  She thought it might be more of a ‘real party’ if not everyone in attendance was a family member.”  A spot of color appears on those sharp cheekbones.  “I-- can’t say that I’m disappointed that I let her manage the guest list.”  

Hermann’s eyes flick up to Newt’s, and it’s Newt’s turn to blush.  “Heh, yeah, me too.”  Regretfully, because _damn_ does he want to sit here and study those lips all night, he adds,  “Listen, I uh, I probably better get going?  I think Mako might want to leave, if she hasn’t already--”

“Vanessa offered to take you home when Mako left,” Hermann says in a rush, and when did that happen?  “She, uh, texted me,” he elaborates, looking down at his lap.  “I apologize for not telling you when it happened, but you were in the middle of describing your thesis committee, and--”

“Oh yeah, those assholes,” Newt grumbles.  “No worries.  And Mako will understand.  She’s used to me getting involved in random debates that last forever.”  He thinks for a second, and decides to just go for it.  “Usually the people I end up arguing with aren’t as cute as you, though.”  

As Newt had hoped, Hermann turns beet red, the color continuing down past his neckline.   _Yeahhh, I still got it!_  Newt thinks.  “Ah, I.  Um.  Thank you.”  Then, unexpectedly, Hermann continues: “I don’t often have such an attractive debate partner, either.”  If possible, he turns even redder, and Newt grins widely.  

“Yeah?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”  Hermann gets this wicked little smile that makes Newt want to kiss it off him, and says, “Lies are for those who work outside of the realm of mathematics.”  

Newt’s jaw drops, and he’s sure he looks like a gaping fish.  “Hermann Gottlieb, you did _not_ just go there.”  

“Oh, I most certainly did,” the damn mathematician says, mild as can be.   _You’re not fooling anyone, Hermann_.  “And I’ve been hiding something else from you as well.”  

That jerks Newt away from planning the next three minutes of comebacks.  “Uh.  What’s that?”

Hermann merely looks up, and Newt--because this is kind of weird--cautiously follows his gaze.  When he spots what Hermann is looking at, he snorts with laughter.  “Seriously, dude?  Mistletoe?”

“See, I _knew_ you were a genius,” Hermann purrs, and pulls Newt in for a kiss.  

( * * * )

  


for reference, this is how I pictured Hermann's awful holiday sweater:

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Optional alt ending: "Get a room!" shouts Vanessa from the kitchen. They both ignore her.)
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


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